Angela smiled. ‘I suppose so.’
There was something so earnest and endearing about him. Or maybe she was just flattered by the fact that he appeared to find her genuinely attractive? Perhaps as a by-product of Brett’s affairs, Angela had long felt frumpy and middle-aged. Compared to the pneumatic perfection of girls like Tricia Hong, a forty-two-year-old mother of two had little to offer.
This whole encounter is ridiculous, she told herself, gently removing her hands from Didier’s and sliding her key card into its slot, opening the door to her room.
‘I’ll pick you up at noon, then, shall I?’ said Didier firmly, pressing his advantage
‘Hold on. I never said I—’
‘In the lobby. Just lunch.’
Angela hesitated, then nodded. What harm was there in one lunch, after all?
‘OK.’
‘Sleep well, Mrs Cranley,’ said Didier.
‘Angela,’ she corrected, then closed the door to her room and leaned back against it, her heart pounding with adrenaline, as if she’d just robbed a bank. What on earth had just happened? Looking down at her left hand, she twisted her wedding ring round and round on her finger. Then, to her own surprise, she burst into laughter.
Downstairs at the dinner table, Helmut Schnetzler was getting impatient.
‘Better?’ he asked gruffly, as Didier returned to his seat.
‘Much,’ said Didier, smiling broadly.
He wondered how long it would take him to crack Mrs Angela Cranley.
Didier took Angela to a tiny fish restaurant, up in the hilltop village of Ramatuelle.
‘I thought you might prefer to be out of town,’ he said as they took their seats on the balcony, overlooking the rooftops of the village with the sparkling blue sea beyond. ‘It’s more peaceful up here, don’t you think?’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Angela sighed.
She was waiting for the guilt to hit her, or at least the absurdity. What was she doing, having lunch with some French playboy at least ten years her junior? But in fact she felt sublimely content. Yes it was unreal, surreal even, to be sitting across the table from a handsome stranger while he poured from a bottle of chilled rosé. But after the events of yesterday, the reality of Angela’s life had lost every shred of appeal.
To think, just yesterday morning she’d been sitting on the yacht eating breakfast and thinking how lucky she was. What a joke! All Brett’s affection, all his warmth had been a front, designed to lure her into a false sense of security. All along he was just waiting for her to leave, so he could smuggle that whore into their bed. Angela felt a wave of nausea wash over her. The thought of going back to the yacht, of putting on a brave face for Logan and trying to act naturally in front of Brett’s friends filled her with a lurching dread.
‘Are you OK?’ Didier asked.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She forced a smile. Brett was the one who should bloody well be feeling sick and anxious, not her.
Didier ordered for both of them, langoustines in white wine and garlic with a side of cold poached artichokes and a delicious selection of local cheeses. He talked easily and naturally about everything from his life in Paris to politics, music and art. Before long Angela felt as if she were lunching with an old friend. By the time he brought the conversation around to more personal matters, they’d already started a second bottle of wine, and Angela was feeling considerably more relaxed.
‘So. You’re married,’ Didier observed casually, helping himself to more of the richly oozing Brie.
‘Yes.’ Angela swirled the pale pink liquid around her glass.
‘Happily?’
She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Not always.’
‘How about now?’
Her tongue loosened by the alcohol, she ended up telling him the whole story, from walking in on Brett and his mistress yesterday, to the history of the affair in Australia, and all the affairs that had preceded it.
‘We moved to England to make a fresh start,’ she laughed bitterly. ‘Like a fool, I thought we had. But Brett hasn’t changed. He arranged this whole thing.’ She drained her glass.
Didier looked at her for a moment, weighing his words before he spoke.
‘Well. Maybe now, you will change.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I say. Maybe you will grow tired of this life, waiting for the next affair, the next betrayal.’
I am tired, thought Angela.
‘Look,’ he took her hand. ‘I am in no position to pass judgement on your husband. I ’ave not always been faithful to girlfriends.’
‘Yes, but you’re not married,’ said Angela. ‘You don’t have kids. It’s not the same.’